


Leaving Sane

by Spiffing



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal (TV) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Mads, Gen, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Mads knows what's up, Major character death in first chapter, Someone inadvertently helps Will Graham, Violence, universe jumping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 09:04:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiffing/pseuds/Spiffing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unexpected circumstances leads to serious consequences. Beware of your supposals.</p><p>Or: Mads meets Hannibal Lecter. Things don't go quite as expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leaving Sane

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is purely fiction, written for fun and to blow off steam. I do not know these people in real life so this is simply an impression. If I have offended anyone, I sincerely apologise for that is not my intention.

His day began as it usually did since living in Toronto, moving here from Copenhagen to work on Hannibal about two years ago. Mads Mikkelsen had woken up to the rising sun, taken a shower, thrown on some clothes, chatted with Hanne, had breakfast with the family, and ruffled Carl's hair on his way out the house to work.

He arrived at the studio not long after, stubbing his cigarette before entering the building. Greeting a few people on his way to the change room, he was met with another one of Hannibal's plaid three-piece suits once he was there. He changed into it slowly, finishing with his long nimble fingers tying the double Windsor knot to the paisley tie. Slipping his phone and wallet in his pockets, he was directed down to make up. He went, knowing his way around. Just as he was about to enter the room, Hugh stepped out, the two crashing into one another. Mads reached out upon reflex, hands firmly on Hugh's biceps, steadying both of them. Hugh gave a weak, embarrassed smile while Mads smiled knowingly.

“Hello, Hugh,” Mads greeted, patting Hugh's shoulders good naturedly before dropping them to his sides.

“Hi, Mads,” Hugh greeted back distractedly. “Sorry about the collision. You'd think I'd learnt by now to look both ways before stepping out.”

“Hey. Don't worry about it. No harm done,” Mads said, amused as he considered Hugh. “The little tyke's been keeping you two up again, huh? Looks like you need some coffee.”

Hugh gave a self-deprecated smile and a half nod.

“Yeah, well... caffeine no longer works for me, it seems. I've become desensitized to the stuff.”

Mads sensed something from Hugh other than exhaustion.

“You seem troubled,” Mads noticed, curious. “Want to talk about it?”

Hugh looked over at Mads before deciding he could trust him.

“Have you seen Bryan's dog, Lou? I was looking after the pup before he suddenly took off. Now I don't know where he's disappeared off to.”

“Which direction did he run off to?” Mads asked.

“Down this corridor. I've started checking the rooms down this way in case he's hidden in one of them. He couldn't have gone far.” Hugh sighed heavily. “Bryan's going to kill me.”

“No, he won't. Lou will be found,” Mads assured confidently. “I'll help search for him.”

Hugh smiled. “Thanks, Mads. I appreciate that.”

Mads nodded and began to move down the corridor. “Keep looking through the rooms. I'll search the paths.”

“Right,” Hugh said, proceeding to the next ajar door.

Eyes peeled for the Puggle pup, Mads called out the pup's name a few times. He heard an answering bark on his seventh call. It could have been his ears deceiving him but it was too much of a coincidence. He followed it up, stepping out of the building and was rewarded with the sight of the pup running across the empty lot, straight into the three metre high shrub boundary.

Mads jogged over to the shrubs, stopped, glanced down at himself and hesitated, before decisively getting onto his hands and knees. He peered under all the the leafy greens and there, in the ditch and the darkened shadows, he saw the creature. Mads wondered what the dog was doing as he tried to get the dog's attention. Mads ended up whistling. The dog turned its head and looked at him.

“Lou?” Mads said gently.

The dog didn't react. He stared at him. Mads stared back. Lou tilted its head at him. Mads chuckled.

“Come on, Lou,” Mads tried again, reaching his hand out, palm upward and open, towards the dog. “I don't bite.”

The dog looked to Mads hand then up at his face. He didn't move. He seemed to dare Mads to crawl under the shrub to get him. Mads glanced behind him but saw no one in sight. Mads returned his attention to under the shrubbery but found it difficult to tell where the dog was, his eyes trying to adjust to the different lighting. He heard a scuffling of paws against dry dirt. Mads heard the direction it came from and made to follow, sliding easily enough between the ground and the shrub. He had forgotten that there was a ditch and he ended up falling. It felt to him a fairly long time before his back hit the ground. He shut his eyes as the dust was disturbed by his fall, coughing when he didn't hold his breath quick enough. After a moment, Mads allowed himself to breathe. He felt something wet lick the side of his face before a small pressure moved across his chest, settling on his belly. He reached to the pressure and felt it was the dog. Now he's got the dog, he could head back inside and let Hugh know.

“Alright. Lets go back. Can't have everybody worrying where we've gotten to,” Mads said to the dog, holding him to his chest with an arm before crawling his way out from the ditch.

Mads rolled out from under the shrubs. He rose to his feet and looked down at himself again. The suit was covered in dust and dried dirt. Thankfully, it wasn't damaged. It needed to be dry cleaned but it should be alright. Mads patted himself down, trying to get most of it off at least. It was then he looked up and discovered that he was no longer at the studio.

A three-story house stood impersonally with neighbouring houses of similar stature. It was night, dark, the very few brightest stars being the only source of light in sight. Mads frowned, his eyes darting around his dim surroundings. It was a completely different place. It was also impossible logically. How could he have been in one place only to be in another in mere seconds? Something was wrong- that, he knew for sure. Yet nothing looked out of the ordinary. There was no signs of oddness to the place.

A Bentley Arnage rolled down the street, slowing upon turning into the drive way of the house. Mads reacted by sliding back underneath the shrub, hiding in the dark with Lou still held protectively against his chest. His eyes widened when he saw himself stepping out of the driver's side, dressed in one of Hannibal's suits, suit jacket draped over his arm. Watching the other man as he locked the car and follow the path up to the porch of the house, Mads knew straight away that that man was not him. The man walked with a confidence unlike Mads' own. It was effortless, graceful. It was a manner belonging to a man use to getting his way. A dangerous man. A wolf in sheep's clothing. He continued to study the man as the lights in the porch ceilings lit up. He was not looking at himself or at another Mads Mikkelsen- if that was even possible. He was looking at the very man he has been portraying for the last handful of months.

Dr. Hannibal fucking Lecter.

Mads was dealing with impossibilities holding no logic. Hannibal Lecter is fictional and yet here the man walks and breathes, _wearing Mads' face_. He could only watch, puzzling over hows and whys, as Hannibal stepped in the house, closing the door behind him.

A coldness consumed Mads.

Hannibal Lecter. Psychiatrist. Former surgeon. Patron of the Arts. Lover of fine things. Serial killer. Practitioner of cannibalism.

It didn't matter whether or not this was real, Mads shouldn't be here. This is a place where Hannibal Lecter exists, that much is obvious. Mads knows things nobody else in this world should know about. Mads doesn't belong. He needed to get out before he does something ridiculous, something he'd regret.

He slid further back down in the ditch. He had to get back the way he came, or wake up if he was dreaming. His hands patted the ground, half-heartedly at first before his movements became frantic.

“Lou?” Mads whispered, his head turning left and right, squinting in the dark. “ _Lou._ ”

In his shock, he had let go of Bryan's dog.

“Lou!” Mads dared to call out, his voice carrying in the silent night.

Three loud barks answered his call. His eyes darted towards the direction it came from and cringed when he saw the dog sitting on the doormat at Hannibal's front door, looking back at Mads with what Mads suspected was a smug expression. The lights came on. The door swung open.

Hannibal Lecter, apron tied around his waist and sleeves folded to his elbows, looked down at the dog briefly, glanced around for an owner, before sending the dog a mild look of distaste. He bent down and inspected the dog tag attached to Lou's collar. Bryan was really going to kill Hugh if Mads doesn't get the mischievous pup back.

With a sigh of resignation, Mads climbed out from under the shrubs and stood up, patting himself down once again. The movement caught Hannibal's attention. Their eyes met. Hannibal was trying to make him out from the darkness of the shadows, a frown gracing his face.

“Is this your dog?” Hannibal asked in cool politeness, his English sounding a little clearer than Mads' own.

With the corners of his lips twitched up in an apologetic smile, Mads stepped out from the blind spot and approached the man, maintaining eye contact, never wavering. He easily spotted surprise in Hannibal's eyes; suspicion and then curiousness following. Mads kept his thoughts and feelings under wraps with ease that came with practise, matching Hannibal's collectedness.

“Yes,” Mads responded simply, slowing when he walked up the steps.

He broke contact for a moment as he bent down to pick Lou up. Once in his arms, he looked across of him, hazel-brown eyes meeting red-flecked browns.

“I apologise for our trespassing,” Mads continued. “Lou rarely runs off the way he does.”

Hannibal gave a small shake of his head, returning Mads' small smile with one of his own.

“Perhaps our likeness in appearance was what caused him to escape.”

“Perhaps. Very uncanny, that,” Mads agreed with a quiet chuckle, giving the pup a few pats. “I better get going then.”

Hannibal tilted his head.

“Before you do, would you like to come in for a glass of wine?”

Mads blinked. Alarm bells going off inside Mads head as he considered Hannibal's offer.

“I... wouldn't want to impose.”

“No imposition. I'd asked.”

“And my dog?”

Mads could just tell the slight hesitation, a reluctance on Hannibal's lips.

“He may join us."

Mads is familiar with his own face and the micro-expressions he could convey. Thoughts were difficult to read by outsiders once hidden and the surface altered, but there's always a stray string that escapes, a vague thing that was almost completely invisible to himself and almost non-existent to others should he chose to let it show. It was strange to see it in the face opposite him but understandable. He had a fair idea of what was going on inside Hannibal's mind. Hannibal's a curious man and Mads wondered if this was a test on his own curiosity of the man.

Mads gave a slight nod of his head, giving in to temptation just this once. Hannibal gave the impression of a welcoming smile as he stepped back and held the door opened. Mads returned the close-to-unnoticeable smile easily and moved forward, stepping over the threshold and into potential danger.

Hannibal's home was as it was designed by set designers if not more. No missing walls here. Not a studio set. A real home. Rich colours, masculine tones. Expensive and tasteful furnishing. Interesting paintings held by well crafted, gold coated mouldings. Statues and statuettes of varying forms. Too fancy for Mads' taste who liked to keep things simple.

The kitchen was just as he remembered it looking. Distant, cold, and morgue-like of wooden browns, and clean smooth whites and silvers. Colours came from the food and the bottles. Stuffed loin ready to be set in the oven. Stainless steel table top lined with a few bowls of raw ingredients about to be prepared. The very bench Lecter prepares his meat.

“I've been unspeakably rude, I haven't offered you my name nor learnt of yours,” Hannibal spoke, holding out his hand. “Hannibal Lecter.”

Mads shook the offered hand firmly, eyes steadfast on the other man.

“Bryan Fuller,” Mads responded smoothly, knowing that Hannibal had seen the name off the tag.

Hannibal grip on his hand tightened for a moment before letting go.

“You're expecting someone,” Mads noted, giving the kitchen another pan-glance. “Are you sure I am not imposing?”

“A colleague, yes,” Hannibal replied, as he opened the oven door and placed the stuffed loin in, closing the oven door once down. “He won't be a while yet, don't worry.”

Mads eyes glided over the setting again. He striked him odd that he recognised the ingredients and the composition they would form. Jack Crawford was coming over. Hannibal and Jack's first dinner together. Was time skewed in this world from his own?

“Loin, stuffed with spinach and mushrooms. With a... Cumberland sauce of red fruits to go with?”

Hannibal's eyebrows rose, curious yet pleased with his observation and deduction. “Yes. Are you familiar with this dish, Bryan?”

Mads looked up, inclining his head in answer.

“Would you like a hand, doctor?” Mads offered.

Hannibal paused, considering Mads with some wariness before his eyes flickered between Mads and the ball of fur in his arms. Mads understood Hannibal's reservations; a want for perfection in their creations is a familiar feeling.

“No. It's quite alright,” Hannibal replied, taking out wine glasses. “What lead you to the conclusion that I'm a doctor?”

Mads smiled. “You seem the type to practice medicine. Or is it psychiatry?”

With a slight lifting at the corner of his lips, Hannibal replied with a hint of nostalgia.

“Psychiatry. My days as a physician has long since been over.”

A pause. Mads didn't follow the convention of freely returning information, appearing to appreciate the well-equipped high-end kitchen.

“If you don't mind me asking, Bryan: what field are you specialised in?”

Turning his attention back to Hannibal, Mads replied.

“I'm a writer of screen plays,” Mads said. Feeling daring, he continued. “I'm currently in the making of another, in fact. About an intelligent and charming cannibalistic serial killer who appreciates good food, good wine, good company, and the finer things life has to offer.”

The atmosphere in the room darkened significantly enough that Mads could sense it. Hannibal had stilled. He looked at Mads with unreadable eyes, unblinking as he assessed him. Mads stared back, appearing oblivious to the change with ease, his body completely relaxed and open. Hannibal's lips suddenly twitched upward, the tension breaking with it.

“I'm intrigued. You must tell me all about it. I promise you I won't tell a soul,” Hannibal said, regarding Mads with a friendly expression, a hint of strain in its design. “Now then. Red or white?”

Wine choice. He'd rather beer but not here, knowing the only beer Hannibal has has human; made and bottled himself. Mads wasn't feeling particularly adventurous in terms of exercising his palate.

“Though I prefer red, either or a mix of the two would do just fine.”

Hannibal gave a small nod and indicated to the chairs. “Red it will be. Please, take a seat. I'll be back shortly.”

Mads slowly moved to the two chairs but did not sit down, removing his suit jacket and draping it over a chair as Hannibal disappeared into the walk-in pantry. Mads inwardly sighed, agitation threatening to show in his calm, collected demeanour. He wondered what the fuck he was doing, hanging around here in a serial killer's den, engaging with a serial killer. He knows Hannibal well despite only just meeting the man. Not quite psychopath though possessing many qualities of one; able to empathise, to feel, and manipulate it as a tool. A fallen angel. Seeing beauty of life on the brink of death. An organized serial killer who would kill anyone who compromised his freedom. Inviting a complete stranger of similar appearance and questionable knowledge about him to his kitchen, rather than the lounge room.

When Hannibal returned, Mads took three long strides towards him before flying his fist into Hannibal's face followed by a sharp swing to his throat. Hannibal's head jerked back, coughing and wheezing soon after. He staggered back, leaning against the door frame, his eyes lifting up to meet Mads; cold, vicious rage unleashed, brewing in its ignited crimson depths.

Before Mads could react, Hannibal swung the bottle of wine up, it slamming into Mads' side. Mads cried out, folding over in agony, before Hannibal brought his knee up, kneeing Mads' in the face. Pain blinded him before nausea took over. He stumbled, the world blurring and tipping before him. He fell to the floor in a daze.

For a moment, nobody moved, Hannibal's troubled breathing filling the room. Mads struggled to get up, blinking rapidly in an attempt to focus as he watched Hannibal put the wine bottle down on the counter. Hannibal managed to recover from his coughing fit barely. Trepidation gripped Mads' gut when the man pulled out a chef's knife from the block of knives; it's edge sharp, glinting in the light.

Hannibal approached Mads, steps slow and measured. His crimson eyes darkened further, focussed and intense. His likeness a predator stalking him the prey; a predator whose ready to strike, to punish the rude.

Gritting his teeth together, Mads doubled his efforts to stand. At him gaining footing against the counter, Hannibal lunged towards him, knife's point nosing in. Mads shrunk back instinctively before his hands clutched at the edge of the sink behind him and kicked, the heels of his Oxfords slamming into the man's knee caps. Hannibal crumbled to the floor with groan. Mads took a step away before swinging his foot in, kicking Hannibal's side, again and once more, causing the man to curl up into himself, hands moving to protect his head.

Mads went down beside Hannibal and grabbed Hannibal's wrist, the other to pry the knife out of Hannibal's clutches. But Hannibal's grip was strong. He refused to let go. His free hand slammed into the side of Mads' face. Mads snarled, smashing Hannibal's hand repeatedly against the stone flooring. The knife finally dropped. Mads leaned over, pushing the bloodied knife across the floor away from them. Hannibal used the momentary distraction to overpower him, bashing his forehead into Mads' before flipping them over, pinning Mads to the floor by sitting on top of his stomach. With hands wrapped around Mads' throat, Hannibal began to squeeze. The pain and pressure against his stomach and the gradual tightening around his neck made it increasingly difficult breath. Mindful of getting his neck snapped, he tried to roll over. He tried to buck Hannibal off of him. He tried to rip the hands off his neck. Hannibal was unfazed at the failed attempts, his grip tightening further, his breathing cut off completely.

Spurting and gurgling, Mads' face began to turn purple. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe. The strength in him began to wane. Body trembling, his vision swimming before him, his insides burned, screaming at him to take action. But he was trapped, he could barely lift his arms up now. This felt all too real, there was too much pain. He thought of Hannes and Carl and Viola. He thought of Lars and the rest of their families. He thought of his close friends, colleagues, and home. Then he thought of losing it all. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. He wasn't going to survive. He was going to lose. He was going to die.

“Who sent you?” Hannibal demanded. “ _Look at me_.”

Mads made the mistake of looking. His own face reflected back at him teetered at the edge of madness. Teeth bared, attention fixed so closely, intensely, watching his every movement as he choked him. The blacks of Hannibal's eyes blown wide, expression of wild fascination and feral hunger. It unnerved Mads to see as fear swam in his own eyes. This will be the last thing he'd see, he thinks. The human veil removed, there was no Lecter present. Just Hannibal. Only Hannibal.

Hannibal the Cannibal.

_Hannibal_ the _Cannibal._

_HANNIBAL THE CANNIBAL_.

Fuck no.

In one fluid burst of motion, Mads folded legs in and swiftly heaved them inward, knees slamming into Hannibal's lower back. The man tumbled forward, having not anticipated his action, the hold on his neck loosening enough that in a stroke of insanity, Mads' head jerked up to the side, latching his sharp incisors into Hannibal's forearm. Hannibal screamed. Choked cries left his lips as Mads bit down harder, breaking through skin. When the torment proved too much for Hannibal, his hands let go, releasing Mads' neck entirely.

Mads, chest heaving in and out, grateful for the air, wasted no time; grasping hold of Hannibal's neck tie and shoving the man off of him, twisting the tie around as he quickly straddled the man's back. Wrapping the ends around his knuckles, he gave the tie a sharp tug, causing Hannibal's head to snap back, a startled, distressed gasp slipping from broken composure. Mads gave another tug, one length longer than the other, tightening the knot further before yanking back completely, choking the man effectively. Mads didn't let up, afraid what would happen if he stopped. Only when exhaustion seeped through his bones, breathing levelled and the adrenalin fell did Mads let go of the silk, Hannibal's head dropping to the ground like a rag doll.

A different sort of fear uncoiled inside him. Dread making itself known. Trembling hands moved, fingers seeking pulse point at wrist and neck. Mads scrambled off of the other man hastily, frightened at his discovery. Heart hammering in his chest, and an awful twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach, Mads rolled the man over and stared, feeling numb; his eyes moving across familiar high cheekbones, down the lean form of the fine clothed man.

A deep shuddering breath escaped him as his eyes slipped closed, trying his hardest to not panic at the turn of events. How did he come to be in such an impossible situation? Why did this all feel so real? It did not matter, not at the moment at least, because no matter the amount of nationalizing he could partake, it would not take away the fact that he had just deliberately taken a life.

The oven timer went off, breaking his thoughts. A distraction. He pushed off off the ground and went to see. Roasted pork. Loin. The loin isn't pork nor was it veal. The loin is people. He had, in his realisation of where the meat came from, unconsciously turned the oven off and taken the meat out. He slowly placed it down on the bench before folding the tea towel, placing it back where he believed he had taken it up from.

His head throbbed with pain, his neck sore and the rest of him ached. It hurt to move his upper body too much. There was a metallic taste on his tongue, a wetness on his lips and down his chin that felt thicker than tears. He lifted his fingers and touched his lips, coming away with crimson. Blood. Real blood. Hannibal's blood. Mads rushed to the sink, emptying his stomach of the breakfast he had eaten a mere two hours ago.

He washed out his mouth, then of his hands, neck and face using water from the sink's tap. Pushing the tap off, his hands braced the edge of the counter, shoulder's hunched and head bent low. He killed someone. He actually killed someone. He recalled he had said on a number of occasions that if he ever met Hannibal Lecter, he would kill him, because he knows what he's up to. It never would have crossed anyone's mind that 'if' could easily turn from hypothetical to reality. He had found no pleasure in the act of killing Hannibal. It made him sick, to know that he managed to do so. He was, for the first time in his life, frightened of the inner psychopath that had taken control of the situation. However, Mads was certain that he won't go seeking other murderers to kill. Completely certain.

The terrible thing about all this was that he felt no remorse, no guilt, for killing Hannibal Lecter. He supposed it was because of the very reason that compelled him to say he would kill the man if they ever met. He actually felt good knowing that the man won't be killing more rude people, could no longer manipulate and fool those around him and those looking for him. Mads had confronted Hannibal, almost dying in the process of ending the skilled and highly intelligent serial killer. But Mads, against the odds, survived. He came out on top. He'd _won_.

He turned around to look at the lifeless body on the ground, still feeling a little spooked at seeing himself in Hannibal. His eyes caught the sight of Lou not far from them, licking the bloodstained handle of Hannibal's kitchen knife. Mads shooed Lou away from the weapon immediately before picking up the knife and, upon habit of pedantic need of adjusting things, rubbed away the visible dried blood stains off the floor with the tip of the sole of his shoe. He glanced at Hannibal's body again, then at the knife, before taking the knife to the sink, carefully washing it and then drying it. His thoughts wandered, vague ideas fluttering by. He found himself absent-mindedly drawing up parallels between what has happened just now and the role he'd played in the German film, The Door.

He returned the knife to its slot in the block and went back to staring down at the carcass of Hannibal Lecter, wondering what to do with it. Should he dump him in the Chesapeake? Should he bury him vertically in the small backyard? Should he burn him in the fireplace? Should he wrap him up in tarp and thrown him in the bay? Should he cut him up and sell the pieces to the black market? Should he put him up on display like the Ripper does?

The door bell rang.

Mads froze. It was Jack Crawford. When there's Jack Crawford at the door, there wasn't much time to do all that was needed. Mads forced himself to focus, push away his thoughts and feeling for a moment. With Hannibal dead, the Cumberland sauce incomplete, Mads looking like a train wreck and Lou nowhere in sight, he had only time to deal with one thing. Mads decided to deal with the body first, grabbing the wrists and dragging the heavy body into the walk-in pantry. The door bell had rang another two times while Mads hid the body. He strode to the front door, all while adjusting his clothes and fixing hair the best he could while his eyes darted around him, hoping to spot the pup along the way.

Opening the door, he saw that it was indeed Jack Crawford.

Jack Crawford, a man dedicated to his work. Rough around the edges, sometimes cynical, but a good person with strong heart. Jack looked him from head to toe and back, shock and concern mingling his features.

Tucking the last of himself behind Hannibal's muse, Mads smiled at the special agent as warmly as his sore face and Hannibal's mannerisms allowed him.

“Good evening, Agent Crawford,” Mads said pleasantly, pulling the door open wider. “Please, come in.”

“Dr. Lecter... Hannibal...” Jack began, frowning. “You look terrible.”

“I assure you it looks worse than it actually feels,” Mads replied candidly. He tilted his head to one side. “Won't you come in? I'd rather not have this conversation on my doorstep where the neighbours could hear.”

A pause. Then Jack stepped through, eyes leaving Mads for a moment to take in Hannibal's tasteful home interior. Mads closed the door and turned to Jack who turned to Mads, arching an eyebrow.

“Want to tell me what happened?”

“It was nothing,” Mads murmured, beginning to feel uncomfortable. “May I take your coat?”

Jack took a step towards him, scrutinising him. Mads resisted the urge to step back, holding his ground.

Mads tried again. “You've caught me in the middle of making dinner---.”

“Forget about dinner,” Jack snapped, folding his arms across his chest. “Talk.”

Mads was a little taken aback with Jack's concern. They hardly knew enough of the other. At this point of time, Hannibal had accepted Jack's request, had accompanied Will and found the Minnesota Strike. Other than mutual respect, nothing much had happened between the two men that would warrant such an interest. Then again, Mads did like look he had been beaten within an inch of his life.

Mads thought quickly on his feet, improvising.

“A disagreement,” Mads said, subdue but casual as though they were discussing the weather. “A patient of mine has been focussing too much on his therapist and not enough on his therapy. I had decided to refer him to a colleague of mine. He didn't take my referral kindly.”

Jack's eyes sharpened. Mads could tell the man was cross-examining Hannibal's file inside his mind.

“You've reported the incident, of course,” Jack made to make sure.

“No. I haven't. He's done nothing wrong by me.”

The man gave Mads with a disbelieving look.

“Have you taken a look at yourself?”

Mads pointedly look away. He didn't answer.

“He still a patient of yours?” Jack went on to ask.

“I am uncertain,” Mads said slowly. “We'd departed on unpalatable terms.”

“I don't want to offend you by asking this, but, uh, will this incident affect your ability to practice?”

“Again, I am uncertain,” Mads answered. “I'm afraid only time could tell. I'm still rather shaken...”

Knowing exactly what Jack was really asking, he turned to regard Jack.

“Should this incident be the reason of my retirement, I will let you know also,” Mads said. “As I do with all my patients, I do have Will Graham's best interest at heart. Though Will is more of a colleague than a patient, should he find discomfort speaking to another therapist so soon, I am willing to support and accommodate him so he may remain working in the field.”

Jack stared at Mads, marvelling at him and his words.

“That's a lot to ask of you, doctor. I don't want you to feel obligated to do this for me.”

“Obligation?” Mads echoed, faintly amused but completely serious. “No. This is about Will and him needing a way out of the dark places you send him to.”

He paused to make sure Jack was following, wanting to be sure Jack knew he disapproved him of using Will despite the younger man's reservations.

“Pure empathy, Agent Crawford,” Mads reminded. “He internalises what he knows about these killers and he reconstructs, gaining insight into their minds. It perhaps takes little to no effort to do on a good day, but it takes a staggering amount of effort to separate and remove the more difficult spectres he allows into his mind.”

Jack appeared thoughtful, having never thought of Will's empathy that way.

“The mind is a fragile thing, Jack,” Mads murmured, “It's the only one we have so we best make an effort to maintain its health. What Will does for you, while wonderful for the FBI and society, is dangerous for him. At the moment, he is of sound mind. However, I fear what would happen to Will when his ability is overexercised. I worry that my best efforts to help won't be enough. That he could wake up one morning, not knowing who he is.”

Jack gaze had fallen to Mads' shoulder. He swallowed thickly, taking Mads' words to heart.

“So what do you suggest I do, doctor?” Jack asked, looking up at Mads for guidance. “I need him out there working for me. He's the best we've got.”

Mads imagined himself in Jack's shoes right at that very moment. He nodded, slipping his hands into his trouser pocket, fingers accidentally touching cellphone and wallet.

“Will is by no means fragile. Nor is he unstable,” Mads said after a moment, meeting Jack's eyes. “He's strong-willed young man with honest, good intentions. The handling of his heightened empathy of which he has had for all his life, and the troubles his empathy brings, is an example of this. His choices of occupation, to help and to inform, is another. Communication is the key. You put him on a case and if he can do it, he'll do it. If he can't, he'll tell you he can't. As you and I know, we as people have limits. Will is no exception to that.”

Mads watched as Jack considered all that Mads had said, letting it all sink in. Jack eventually nodded, a rare smile touching his lips, looking pleased.

“Dr. Bloom was right to recommend you for Will. How long have you known him?”

Mads gave a quiet chuckle but didn't reply to the questioning, knowing it didn't need answering. Deciding to get things moving, he made to change the subject.

“Are you still interested in dinner or shall we continue forgetting?”

Jack chuckled in return, broad shoulders visibly relaxing as he nodded a few times.

“Dinner would be lovely.”

They soon seated opposite one another at the table in the dining room, Hannibal having already set the table. Mads found Lou lying underneath the table, dozing away. Mads let him be, the pup was probably exhausted and traumatised. And so, he and Jack ate, a steady flow of rapport happening between them. He found himself almost forgetting that Jack Crawford is a fictional character.

The food was delicious. Despite the meat being human.


End file.
